


(It Is) What You Make of It

by InAmongstTheMountains



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InAmongstTheMountains/pseuds/InAmongstTheMountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would have been revealed in game if they had known each other, but it is within the realm of possibilities that Alistair and Cullen attended Templar training at the same time and in the same place. I like to think they would have been friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Twin bronze statues flanked the portcullis. To the left stood warrior Andraste with her sword raised, and to the right the Bride of the Maker had out her hands, cupping the eternal flame. A high wall ringed the granite fortress, a geometric pile of large landings and baraks. On the lowest level was a wide trampled training ground, that stretched wide enough that a full battalion could stand in formation . From the square towers hung banners of heavy purple cloth, embroidered with gold, and silver ; the colors of Ferelden’s Templar Order.  

 

_Wow,_ thought thirteen year old Cullen Rutherford. _This place is big_.

 

Sitting atop his pony, he had a good vantage point of the world he was about to be welcomed into. The young boy struggled to use the manners as his mother taught him, but couldn’t help the wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare as he watched Templars in their heavy silver armor practice sword strokes in the yard. Every flash of steel in the morning sunlight dazzled Cullen as his pony trotted after the horse in front of them.

 

The templar on the gelding in front was a middle age man with a missing tooth and a heavy beard named Ser Kelven. He was well known to the Village of Honnleath for both the energy and raucousness with which he sang the Chant. It was on his good word that Cullen’s parents agreed to allow their youngest son’s request to follow his dream and join the templars.

 

Kelven chuckled, having turned to see the boy dazzled by the men in their practice. It was clear that he had enthusiasm, and a desire to learn and serve. Good. He’d need that to make it through the first two years of training.

 

Leaning their horses in the hands of a greying stablemaster, Cullen brushed the dust of the road from his clothes. He wanted to make the best impression, to be as mature as possible and ready to meet the Knight-Commander. He also wanted to not cry with happiness in front of anyone, that would be embarrassing.

 

“You ready lad?” Kelven asked, handing the boy his pack. Cullen slung the bag over his shoulder and nodded vigorously. “Yes ser.” His voice was clear and he looked the templar in the eyes evenly, though he couldn’t hide the excitement that shook him from nose to toes.

 

The climbed the steep, winding stairs up towards the crest of the hill, Kelven, growing older could feel the ache in his joints, but young Cullen had grown up in the hills and rocky outcrops that marked the Western Hinterlands, the long climb was nothing to him.

 

Crowning the hill that the Templar Order had built its castle on stood the main body of the keep, an intimidating and weather-worn structure in blue-grey granite. A large chapel grew from its left wing, the red roof, simple yet stunning stain-glass and yellow marble carving of Andraste and her disciples stood in juxtaposition to the continuous grey stone. Indeed Cullen marveled at the Chantry his head back to admire the statues on the roof, for it made the one back home look terribly plain indeed.

 

Kelven, however did not give him long to tary, ushering the youth through two heavy oak doors bearing the flaming sword in carved relief. A hole felt like it was forming in Cullen’s stomach, doing flips like his siblings used to into Honnleath’s nearby lake. He threw his gaze about the hall, trying to take in the fading paintings and shields that gave some color to the falls. He grew very subconscious of the sound his feet made, as if he had wandered into a moment of silent prayer. The air around him smelled of crisp, cool rock, mingling with the smell of incense and wax candles.

 

They stopped outside what Cullen took to understand as the Knight-Commander’s office. Immediately a mixed maelstrom of thoughts and emotions rolled through him. What if the Knight-Commander was gone and he had to go back to Honnleath and try at a later date? What if they wouldn’t accept him? What if he said something foolish and they sent him to be a chanter instead?

 

Ser Kelven shook his head and gave the boy a chance to realign the expression on his face and stand up a little straighter. Surprisingly serious for a youngest child. Holding open the door for Cullen, they stepped inside.

 

The Knight-Commander's office gave one the immediate sense that they only wanted to be in there to bring positive news and only for as little time as possible. The walls were unadorned save an alarming painting of Andraste engulfed in flames hanging behind the desk. Two carefully maintained greatswords, the very image of them razor sharp, hung from the wall by iron pegs. The desk was a meticulous stack of papers and reports, an inkwell and quill.

 

Knight-Commander Byron himself was a tall, lean man with broad shoulders and a weak chin that gave him an odd appearance, as if the Maker couldn’t decide on a shape. His peppered facial hair was impeccably maintained as was the long hair that ringed his head, emphasizing his balding but a way that suggested the blading be done uniformly for the commander had no time to deal with unorderly nonsense. Byron was proud in his shining, but well worn, silverite armor, the plate fit him like a second skin. Around his large shoulder hung a half cape, purple and embroidered with the same silver sword that hung on the banners outside. He surveyed Ser Kelven and Cullen with an eagles scrutiny as they walked in.

 

“Kelven.” He rose and clasped the templars hand, voice surprisingly light for such an intimidating man. “A safe journey down from the hills then?”

 

The Knight-Captain of Honnleath bowed. “It was ser, we made fair time.”

 

Byron turned to Cullen with an appraising stare. “This is the youth?”

 

“Cullen, ser. Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath.” Cullen too  bowed respectfully to the Knight-Commander, and sent a silent prayer to the Maker that the elder templar wore gloves and couldn’t feel the sweat of his palms as they shook hands.

 

The Knight-Commander smiled appreciatively, or his mouth formed a line that might be mistaken for a smile. “Good, manners will get you a long way here.” Cullen swelled with pride and thanked his mother in addition to the Maker. “Why do you wish to be a Templar, why should we accept you?”

 

Cullen hadn’t expected to be asked that question so soon. On the ride down he’d come up with a speech and repeated it to himself over and over until he had it memorized. But standing before the Knight-Commander he felt all of it flee his mind like birds disturbed from a tree.

 

“I want to do the Maker’s work, I want to do what is good and what is right.” Cullen held Byron’s gaze.

 

With an amused, but satisfied hum, the commander nodded. “Welcome to Fort Cathaire, and the templars, Cullen of Honnleath.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's POV

"Maker help you if I find one bit of food still stuck to those pots, boy!"

 

Alistair stuck his tongue out at the back of the head cook, elbow deep in a saucepan scrubbing with all his might. This isn't what he had imagined when the sisters at the monastery informed him he was off to be a templar. Though considering the two and a half years he spent there, he wouldn't have put it past them to lie. The revered mother had been glad to see the back of him.

 

Though he supposed it was his own doing, he had done his best to be miserable there, and the sisters were made miserable by proxy. But the sisters here had iron in their spines and impeccable aim, bad behavior wasn't something to bemoan, it was a problem to be corrected.

 

So thus, young Alistair was in the kitchens scrubbing pans until his hands looked like raisins and it hurt to extend his fingers back to their proper shape.

 

He wiped his flushed face on his sleeve, unceremoniously stacking the pot he'd been working on in the heap beside him and dragging the next pan into the washtub. Andraste's Holy Behind. (A swear he'd heard from a stable hand, and had grown quite fond of). He scowled at the murky water. _You're going to be a templar they said, do an honorable service in the name of the Maker they said. Your father will be proud of you they said. Stupid sisters, what did they really know with their books and candles and holier-than-thou attitudes?_

 

He shook himself, and muttered to the Maker for forgiveness. He was being unkind and he knew it. They had no idea, the sisters had done what they could for him, even if it hadn't been much. He could read, write, and had two meals a day. He should be more grateful for what they'd done for him. Even if he was consigned to scrubbing down the dishes it could be worse; he could be flushing out the privies, or dead. Yeah, dead was bad; kitchen duty definitely wasn't the worst fate. In the end, it was what you made of it.

 

Finally finished with the mountain of cast iron, Alistair hauled the washtub out the door, careful not to spill any water on his way. He'd earned a hard rap over his knuckles for that last week.

 

Letting the tub empty, the blonde boy dried his hands on his trousers and ran a hand through his hair. He frowned, the grumpy expression exaggerated on his round face. The revered mother had insisted that he looked like a wilder and despite Alistair's protest, had take a razor to his head, leaving behind half an inch of hair. Turns out he had a cowlick smack dab in the front of his hairline. Go figure.

 

Alistair looked down over the buildings to the Templars sparring with live steel. They moved with such sureness and grace that Alistair had a glum moment, worried he would never be able to match such skill. He thought of the tales the servants back in Redcliffe had told him. Of the templars saving villages, heroic knights stemming the tide of enemies in honor of their king, of the Grey Warden riding their griffons saving the world from the Blights. In secret he had pretended to be all of these, jumping from boxes and bushes, waving a stick around like a sword, a chipped pot cover his sturdy shield. The monastery had scolded that impulsive play right out of him, and it had been years since he'd imagined a stick to be a sword, but every so often the old excitement rose and he had to catch himself from turning to foolery, simple sweeping becoming a fight for his life against an imaginary dragon.

 

Still, it would be nice to know that a bastard from Redcliffe could become a hero.

 

Having pushed his luck wasting time, Alistair brought the washtub back into the kitchen and dashed off before the cook had something for him to do again. As such a young recruit, he was meant to be of assistance in the fortress. All new recruits had a year of household duties before they were handed leathers and a heavy practice sword and their training began in earnest. In truth, all recruits were meant to assist with any tasks assigned to them, but the older ones were so dedicated to study that the cleaning and organization was left to the younger ones. A way to learn the importance of cooperation, duty, and discipline, the commander said.

 

On Alistair’s mind however was the wonderful thought of slipping back to bed for an hour or so before the midday bell. He pulled a hard piece of cheese from his pocket, freshly filched from the kitchen, and took a bite. Somehow the satisfaction of being one-up on the head cook made the sharp tang all the sweeter.

 

The barracks for the recruits were housed in a wing of the fortress on the mid level. They were tiny rooms with a singular window and just enough space for a bunk, two desks and two personal chests. As of yet, Alistair had lucked out, and had the space to himself. He knew it wouldn’t last forever but considering the events of his first week here, Alistair would give anything, even perpetual dish duty, to stay that way.

 

To his surprise however, he returned to find one of the templars in the doorway, speaking to someone inside.

 

“Privy is down the hall, the bell rings at dawn, midday, and dusk. You get two meals, and your chores after breakfast and lunch, if you have any questions find a lieutenant…. or ask your roommate here.”

 

The templar stepped aside to allow Alistair into the room. He came face to face with another boy his age, taller by some, his curly hair short in an attempt to tame it.

 

“Hi.” The other boy spoke first, and held out his hand. Alistair shook it, feeling the light sweat of his palm. The handshake was oddly formal. “I’m Cullen.”

 

“Alistair.” he replied.

 

The handshake lasted a little too long and awkwardly the two boys looked at each other. Neither seemed to have anything else to say.

 

“I’ll let you two get acquainted.” The templar said as he left, Cullen and Alistair standing in their room in silence.

 

“So… Alistair, where are you from?” Cullen asked, surveying the room with poorly disguised excitement.

 

“Redcliffe.” Alistair answered, watching Cullen open his bag to remove his few personal possessions, pausing until Alistair pointed to the free chest. “You?”

 

“Honnleath.” He replied cheerily, organizing his possessions in the trunk. “I went to Redcliffe once with my father, I never knew the stone was really as red as it was. What do you think does that?”

 

Alistair shrugged. “The revered mother said Andraste fought off evil there and the blood of her enemies stained the ground forever, but I’m pretty sure it’s clay or something.”

 

Cullen made a thoughtful hum, satisfied with both the state of his trunk and Alistairs answer. “So uh…“ The taller boy looked around, “Ser Marris said there’s a privy somewhere?”

 

It took Alistair a moment to connect the name with the face in his head. “All the way down on the left.” He pointed through the stone down the hall he’d come from earlier. “The oldest recruits get closest to the baths and privvies.”

 

“Thanks.” Cullen headed to the door.

 

“Hey Cullen?”

 

The boy stopped and turned. “Yes?”

 

Alistair smiled and then grimaced. “Whatever you do, don’t sit.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's POV

The midday bell clanged, startling Cullen from his daydreaming.

 

In an instant he was up from his desk, heart racing and ready to go. He checked himself over quickly; dust gone, shirt tucked in. All good. Alistair dropped to the floor, taking his time coming down from the top-bunk.

 

“Where are we supposed to report to?” He asked Alistair, who was busy rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  

 

“Main Hall, there’ll be templars there to give out tasks and answer questions. Better get going, last ones there get the worst chores.” Alistair wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Like privy duty.”

 

Somehow, Cullen knew that Alistair must have experienced said punishment before.

 

The tawny-eyed boy looked over Alistair. The other was shorter than him by an inch or so, he had a round face, red nose, and a foolish center cowlick. But he was stockier than Cullen, had bigger shoulders. He also had the look of someone who’d done a fair bit of physical work without having gotten a big enough meal. His clothes, rough cotton and bearing the sword and flame of the Templar order, were wrinkled and untucked.

 

“Do you know where I’m supposed to get one of those?” He pointed to the embroidered sword on Alistair’s breast.

 

The shorter boy pulled at his uniform and thought for a moment. “Quartermaster I think, I don’t remember.” He shrugged. “You can probably ask when we get there.”

 

Alistair lead him through the halls, pointing out important rooms and areas with casual waves. There were study rooms, a hall where the Revered Mother taught, a library, and a library only allowed for full templars. The fortress had five large wings, three were devoted to living quarters, one for the armory and smithy, and the last for the kitchen and meal hall. The chantry at the top of the fort hill was a newer addition, the previous one having collapsed during a particularly destructive blizzard in the late Storm Age.

 

The buildings themselves were all in rather good repair, kept fairly free of moss and ivy that would otherwise eat at the mortar. All of the stone came from a near-by quarry, officially owned by Ferelden’s branch of the Chantry, a gift from a king back during the fortresses construction in the Steel Age, but managed and employed by a local bann. The upkeep of the walls was rigorously maintained thanks to dedicated masons, and a steady stream of coin from the Grand Cathedral.

 

While the outer walls of the fortress were unadorned save the templar banners, the interior allowed for some decorative appeal. The walls were sparingly hung with plain banners embroidered with the sunburst or sword, and simple tapestries of Andraste leading her armies against the Imperium, or the prophetess sitting in contemplation. Alcoves had been built into the larger halls as quiet respites for prayer. Yet despite being a part of the Chantry, more so than of Ferelden, the traditional wood carvings, furniture, and furs had all infiltrated leaving the castle with a touch of home amid the serious, reserved atmosphere that blanketed the whole of the structure.

 

Alistair prattled on about the templars he’d met, going through names so fast that Cullen missed every other one. There was Knight-Commander Byron who never got involved with the recruits, and one should always endeavor to stay out of his way. Knight-Captain Mortimer, whom the recruits called Knight-Captain Wart behind his back, a relic from Orlais’ occupancy who supervised the more important day-to-day actions of the castle. The Knight-Captain was a crabby old man prone to yelling when you startled him and picking at the wart on his nose when he thought there was no one looking.

 

Then there were the Lieutenants: Ser Talrew, recently promoted after several victorious missionary expeditions against the Avvar in the South and their heathen shamans; Ser Raleigh, who was in charge of combat training; Ser Laney, a woman, and in charge of all goods entering or leaving the castle; and Ser Greer, a stern, very pious man, in charge of managing the recruits. Additionally, there was the head cook Farrell, the horse-master Ser Vance, the Revered Mother Grenda and the blacksmith Trafford, whom everyone amiably called Traff.

 

The castle housed roughly two hundred bodies; over one hundred recruits, sixty full templars, a dozen Chantry staff, and a handful of civilian laborers and craftsmen under pay of the Chantry. If pressed it could handle twice that number.

 

It was Ser Greer who waited for them, arms crossed, dressed in heavy mail, and scowling in the meal hall. Cullen wanted to introduce himself, but the number of recruits mulling about gave him cold feet, and silently he followed Alistair towards a group of boys about their age. All of them wore the same tunic that Alistair did. Cullen’s enthusiasm fled as he became aware of the looks he was getting and his lack of a uniform.

 

To hide his nervousness, he straightened up and glanced at the others in the room. About seventy people stood in various groups, each according to age, Cullen guessed. The oldest were in chainmail, with live steel on their waists, drinking water and covered in dust: those he’d seen practicing this morning. There were younger teens, in practice leathers, some of whom looked down-right uncomfortable in the armor. Only five girls were in attendance, all of whom chose to stand separate from their male counterparts.

 

The group that he and Alistair stood a little a part from was divided into roughly two parts. A large huddle was full of boys between twelve and fourteen, their hands were rough, some had stains on their clothes, and from what he could catch of their accents, were likely the sons of farmers and shopkeepers. The other group was smaller, but each boy in it had the high brows and judging eyes of those born into nobility. They stood with their chests out, and had their noses upturned like they were moderately offended at having to share the space with the children of freeholders. One of them shot Alistair a nasty look, but he blatantly ignored it, his ears turned red.

 

Apparently having decided that he’d waited long enough, Greer began barking orders, which instructor was where, and what they needed. He went by age range, quickly, and without repeating himself.

 

Getting to Cullen’s group, the templar just pointed at them in pairs and sent them off to their chores. The list was endless. Sweeping, dusting, beating the carpets, laundry, dinner prep. He and Alistair were towards the end and were assigned mucking the stables.

 

Cullen wanted to ask about his change of clothes, but Alistair hushed him and pulled the taller boy away. “Greer’s in a bad mood, I’ll help you find Lady Laney after dinner. Besides, were on stable duty, no sense in changing only to have to change twice.”

 

“Does he even know names?”  Cullen asked as they filed with the rest towards the door, flicking his head back to Ser Greer.

 

“Not likely, I think we’re all just numbers in his head, all he cares about is that the chores get done.” Alistair answered, then stood on his toes to see why it was taking the line so long to move through the door.

 

Two kids, younger than Cullen, raced in, panic on their faces. The whole line tittered as Greer mercilessly rebuked the late boys for their tardiness. In shame, they got into the end of the line and Alistair couldn’t suppress a grin.

 

“What’s so funny?” Cullen asked, having received second hand embarrassment himself from the scolding.

 

“That’s what happens when you’re late,” Alistair said matter-o’-factly. “Yelling, and then privy duty.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's POV

Spring was passing into summer accompanied by the typical gusto of Ferelden rainstorms. Nowhere in the castle could one escape the mud or the heavy, damp scent of stone and mildew.

 

Alistair didn’t mind much, the rain, gnats, and constantly being up to your ankles in mud reminded him of Redcliffe, and his summers along the beaches, climbing the red stone rocks of Lake Calenhad. The castle was decidedly less fun.

 

Every morning bell jarred him from his sleep as sure as if someone had poured cold water on him. He yearned for the days where he could have slept until mid morning, where there was no punishment to sneaking into the kitchen for porridge and dried fruit. He missed the comforting sound of the waves lapping at the shore, and the lake birds. It’d been almost three years now since Arl Eamon had escorted an angry, puffy-eyed Alistair to the monastery, but still the boy found his daydreams bringing him back to the life he had before all of this was decided for him.

 

Yet each morning he would slowly crawl down from bed, grumbling, sleep in the corners of his eyes, and he’d find that Cullen had gotten up early enough to bring water from the well so they could wash their faces. The castle and its strict sisters, endless chores, and extraordinary lack of humor, were almost unbearable, but somehow he’d made a friend.

 

To Alistair, Cullen was his opposite: he was punctual, an early riser. Cullen went above and beyond to complete his tasks, with never a question or complaint. He had better focus when it came to studying, could remember the lyrics to the songs in the chant, and didn’t appreciate it when Alistair sniggered at the Revered Mother for her bizarrely bold makeup. He was also taller.

 

And unlike Alistair, he genuinely wanted to be here.

 

“Hey Cullen?” He asked one day as they mucked the stables, the task even more time consuming due to the rain. “Did you always want to be a templar?”

 

The taller boys blonde head poked around a hay bale. “Since I was young, why do you ask?”

 

Alistair shrugged in response, flopping onto the fresh straw. “Curious I guess, you just seem like you really want to.”

 

Cullen’s neck flushed pink as he was warranted to do when embarrassed.  “I remember being younger, and the Grand Cleric had come out to visit every Chantry in Ferelden, and she had templars with her. I just remember the armor and that they were so proud and shining and like nothing could stand against them. They were like the knights in the tales, heroes, and stuff, I-I wanted to be one too… I still want to.” Cullen trailed off.

 

Alistair nodded settling deeper into the hay. He got that feeling too, probably why he was putting up with all of this instead of- well there wasn’t much else for him to do. No family to go back to; Arlessa Isolde had all but formally banished him from Redcliffe. He didn’t know anything about livestock, farming, hunting or any trades. All he did know was how much he wanted to do something good, something right, whatever it was. “Make’s sense.”

 

“What about you?” Cullen called down the barn, having moved to the next stall, intent on working, even if Alistair wasn’t.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Why do you want to be a templar?”

 

With no good answer in mind, Alistair chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t know.” He finally said, sitting up. “I’m not sure I’d be good at being anything else… and there’s no other place to go really, might as well be useful.”

 

Cullen huffed in a satisfactory kind of way. But didn’t pry further. “Are you going to help me or is Ser Vance going to have to yell at us again?”

 

“Im getting up, Im getting up.” He yawned. Hay showered the ground as Alistair stood. The rain had returned and somewhere near him, the pitter-patter of water drops hitting the floor threatened to lull him back to that comfortable straw pile and in to sleep with their regularity.

 

That was the other difference between himself and Cullen. The taller boy dared to allow his dreams into implementable hopes, whereas Alistair had long since learned that it was foolish to think only the Maker pushed you through life.

 

 


End file.
